This poem is about a friend of mine (not the skinny naked blonde picured, for what it's worth). Actually, it's not really about her, it's about the author, but she's a large part of it.
It's a little weird reading it, to glimpse a little sliver of an intensely personal part of her life. It would be rather different if it wasn't her, I think; the objectivity of anonymity also obscures relevant details and knowledge.
It's easy to forget that the people who appear in poems and stories have lives outside their literary context; that they have jobs both mundane and varied; they have pets, apartments, cars, friends; brothers, sisters, parents. They have a context outside the context.
And really, it's just a bit weird reading about a friend having sex, too.
Hm. Not exactly what I wanted to say, but I guess that it's going to have to do for now.
I like the poem.
Like everyone in your train car in the morning - they all have an apartment, a job, a love story, they all go to the bathroom, shave, brush their teeth, and learned to ride a bike at some point in their life.